


Strip Your Armour and Wear Your Silk

by Anam_Writes



Series: the things you can't read aloud at the war table [9]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Background Poly, Background Relationships, Courtship, Cunnilingus, F/M, Grey-ace!Byleth, Lace, Lingerie, Masturbation, Minor Dorothea Arnault/Yuris Leclaire | Yuri Leclerc, Minor Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Hilda Valentine Goneril/Marianne von Edmund, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, No Beta; We Die Like Glenn, No war, Oral Sex, Post-Time Skip, Post-Time Skip Ages, Regency, Regency Romance, Resolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anam_Writes/pseuds/Anam_Writes
Summary: Miss Eisner, the Ashen Demon, is a hardened mercenary; but also a collector of impractical clothing. Finding no occassion to wear such things, her good friends Dorothea and Yuri offer to guide her through a social season in Derdriu.Meanwhile, Claude von Riegan, Sovereign Duke of Leicester, is both the most desirable and least interested bachelor on the market. When he finds himself falling for a debutante new to Derdriu, how will he balance their mutual desire for one another with her relative inexperience and the political machinations of his country?OrYuri hosts a confident, experienced, fearsome mercenary so she can take a break and indulge in her fashion hobby and fucks with Claude by insinuating Byleth is a sheltered, country maid....“I want you,” she whispered to his hand, gaze fluttering down and away from his wide eyes.Claude swallowed. The lump in his throat moved painfully through a tightness there. He could not help but grip Byleth’s hand fast in his own as the whole of his being went rigid. All felt heavy and hard: his mind in his head, his tendons beneath his skin, his heart in his chest, even his voice in his throat.“And I you.”
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: the things you can't read aloud at the war table [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684297
Comments: 19
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gods! This is a whole day late. There was a very finnicky series of edits on this that slowed down my last steps but it is HERE!!!! And it is...well, see for yourself!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this guys! Special thanks to all the folks on twitter who have been killing me with art: [@sinnamon_chatte](https://twitter.com/sinnamon_chatte/status/1354941226840018956), [@madamechell](https://twitter.com/madamechell/status/1356087596242317313), [@Diadri](https://twitter.com/Diardri/status/1356310790773624839)
> 
> Also, since all these lovely artists are killing me with pretty things, I also want to pay it forward to a fav victim- I mean, friend, and fellow regency nut [Maddy02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddy02/pseuds/Maddy02). Also, to that one anon friend who is reading this, hi! I'm glad you liked my Jane Austen rec!

Goneril was a name with many facets which Byleth, due to the unique circumstances of both her vocational and recreational interests, was very well acquainted with. Her father had supplied her personally—with all such eccentricities as that word implied—an education befitting the most feared mercenary in Fódlan. She was familiar with the standing and the history of all relevant players on the continental board whom she might call employer; and it was her privilege to know which bets could be made in relative comfort, and which should be passed on by the wise. 

The name Goneril was an attachment unstained: compensation was timely and generous, the work they offered was uncontroversial. Moreover, they maintained a weight and legitimacy to their name many others of their rank had failed to. A contract with the Gonerils was thereby not only preferable, but could well lead to a recommendation worth more than a company’s fee. These were all good reasons for Byleth to take her first contract independent of Jeralt’s mercenaries under Goneril command. They were even the reasons she gave. 

However, there was more to Byleth’s decision than just the practicality of the matter. Jeralt knew. He must have with the way he sighed, smiled woefully, and shook his head when Byleth negotiated with the caravan she would help guard to carry her prize wooden trunk with them. If he had not known then he had at least caught on by the time she asked for leave through to the Garland Moon. It was all too perfectly aligned to be coincidence. 

Which brought Byleth to that other facet of the Goneril name; the one which held those interests better characterized as recreational. Amidst the waterways of Derdriu that had been frozen over in winter air, the sleds and the skaters on the straits, the horses and pedestrians on the cobblestone paths, there was a boutique. Of this boutique, Hilda Goneril, through no small effort, found herself the sole proprietor. Her charm and talent for delegation had been famed when she was but a young lady, second born to a great name and title; but her skill with her craft was only publicly known once she jumped from her brother’s snug little nest. She had personally seen to the dressing of all three rulers of Fódlan’s nations for one occasion or another and set trends for the nobility that were sure to define the decade. Byleth, confined strictly to those articles of clothing which afforded her the most mobility and protection, admired Hilda's work greatly. 

Who in their right mind would blame Byleth then, for her need to breathe deeply and reach out to Dorothea for her hand when she stood at the door of _Les a Lili_? It was only the very centre of fashion in Leicester; and Byleth came in old breeches, a handed down tailcoat that had not yet been fit to her measurements, and fur mantle she’d traded for from a shepherd in Faerghus. 

"No need for that, friend," Yuri said from his wife's other side. His expression flickered briefly with sympathy before it dampened, not unlike one would predict of a candle in the open air of the Pegasus Moon. It was replaced with the more wolfish countenance he’d stitched together over the years. Byleth supposed it a warmer thing to wear. "Hilda will love to get her hands on you. Really, I should be charging her."

"Let Byleth feel her nerves. She has every right to them," Dorothea patted her husband on his arm. With a flourish of her hand, clad delicately in a sheer white glove, Dorothea reached up to pinch the brim of her rose-laden hat, peeking out at Byleth as she proceeded with its removal. "Yuri is being crude, but he is correct. Miss Goneril will just adore you."

From the moment the door opened and Dorothea put a hand at her back to usher her through, Byleth could already feel the warmth of some heat within. Despite the draft the party had let in at their backs, already their cheeks and their toes began to tingle once more with sensation. The space was small but efficiently used and ornately decorated, much as one might expect from the shop of so celebrated and exclusive a dressmaker as Hilda Goneril. Caps were lined on the wall like hunting trophies and ribbons on a turning rack in the corner like a mobile. Samples of fabric sat neatly organized atop cupboards and drawers Byleth might guess held the actual yards for sale. All was accented by the pale mint and ivory print of lilies that papered the walls, and the pink silk curtain that divided the shop from the fitting room. 

Finding nothing productive in standing doe-eyed at the entry, Byleth took the crook of Dorothea's offered arm and stepped towards a sampling of black lace to their left. 

"This might make a good replacement for my stockings," Byleth noted. They were one of the few items Byleth collected with her own coin which she could make proper use of. Beneath all her armour, it made little difference; and when she rested, who would dare to question her attire?

Dorothea gave a little gasp. "Oh dear! But your last pair were new. Did something happen?"

"A recruit happened." Byleth gave a nod, remembering the poor sod's red face when he'd come to her, her stocking all frayed and in knots. "One who was unaware that I do my own laundry."

"A travesty," Yuri said. "I will remember to add such things to my organization's basic training. Could you imagine the poor state of dear Dorothea if some green young recruit did such a thing to my own lace stockings?"

"I cannot," Byleth smirked. 

"Well, I can!" A voice chimed from past the curtain. It pulled back to reveal a lady, dressed in a pastel rose frock, wool shawl held tightly about her shoulders. She was a short woman, easily mistaken for dainty; but Byleth could recognize the gait of a soldier accustomed to heavy armour from a mile off. The woman's hair was worn down, cut neatly to frame her face with straight sections of pink hair and bangs that ended just above her brow. "She was in quite the state when that rogue tore your muslin last spring."

"I remember!" Byleth watched in amused silence as Dorothea's brow knit together. "And when you'd gone to such lengths to find something to match your gown."

"Well the hypothetical boy who ruined my stockings did not do so while drunk at a burlesque," Yuri laughed. His gaze flicked briefly to Byleth who nodded an affirmation. The recruit had, in fact, been entirely sober and in camp. "I am sure the lad is very sorry."

"If he is not, he will be," the young woman approached. Her smile was broad and dazzling as she turned then to Byleth. "You must be Miss Eisner. Dorothea has sung your praises to me. It was a good song with some spectacular runs, and all about the exploits of the famous Ashen Demon."

"Byleth, if you would," the mercenary in question nodded. She shifted her weight as the dressmaker's eyes skimmed her body from crown to foot. "I am an admirer of your work, Lady Goneril. I saw it first at a chest show as I passed through Enbarr. I am...something of a collector."

"Hilda will be fine in present company," Hilda took one of Byleth's hands in both of hers. "Or any company, if you prefer. And I've been made aware of your collection. Yuri's man delivered your trunk yesterday afternoon. They are beautiful pieces! Have you really never had occasion to wear them?"

Once or twice—when she had time, and those few comrades amiable to the style were available—she had hosted an hour or so of tea in a garment. But that brought a flush to her cheeks hotter than the cold winter day. Byleth bowed her head and hoped Hilda would not see the new blood rising there. "Never."

"You see now why we invited her?" Dorothea chimed in. "She really is such a fan, Hilda. Byleth adored your piece for me and the _Aria de Rhosyn_ , as well. Yet she's never had the honour of wearing your work."

"I see!" Hilda laughed. It was a joyful sound, like a bell. "I would have sponsored you myself this season had the Arnault-Leclercs not beat me to it. Pity! Next year, perhaps."

Yuri came close to Byleth's side. "You just want to see how your brother will react to the Ashen Demon being your guest."

"Hush, you!" Hilda scolded. "Come in, all of you! We'll see to fitting at least a few of your dresses by the season's opening." The dressmaker made ready to turn away before, with a start, she seemed to recall something. "And you will leave those breeches here, Byleth. There's a hole in them and I cannot have you in the cold like that."

* * *

With the formal opening of Derdriu’s social season, the city became all abuzz. Young men and young women of the courtly circles had their final fittings for a new social year’s wardrobe, and plans were made for meetings of both personal and political import to happen beneath the veil of society gatherings. Many such plans this year hinged—to the surprise of no one—on the season's most eligible bachelor: the Sovereign Duke of Leicester, Lord Claude von Riegan. And, much to the delight of many candidates for the Duke's hand, he was hosting this year's opening ball.

Such a thing necessitated, of course, that the Duke Riegan be there; which very nearly made Claude regret coming to Fódlan to take up the role. Nearly, for there was work to be done, and he alone could do it. The knowledge of that fact did not make being herded around his own home by Judith on his one side, and Lorenz on his other any easier. 

"Lady Llewyn," Judith made the first introduction after he had paid his due attention to the most prominent of his guests. She was from a minor house, but one well-respected for the frequency with which crests appeared in their bloodline. 

A match would send a message most counterproductive to Claude's goals. 

"Mr. Reese, and his sister, Miss Reese," Lorenz introduced the next hopefuls. They were of an affluent family of merchants and craftspeople. 

Better, and yet Claude felt a certain repulsion at the hunger in their chaperone's eye. To be presented with both siblings with no regard for either as individual prospects...

"Lord Aubert," the man presented himself before either of Claude's close counsel could. "I believe we met last summer at a race near Ordelia's holdings. If I remember correctly, Your Grace, you had insisted on riding the horse yourself."

Claude smiled politely, a much wider grin being curbed. "She is a special breed of mare, my Setareh. We ride best when together."

"It is as I suspected," Aubert's lashes fluttered, blonde catching the light of the candelabra in a way that drew the eye. Nice trick, Claude thought absently, sipping his drink. "It takes a special sort of breed to ride with you, Your Grace."

Aubert left with that, sending only a glance back over his shoulder to ensure the Duke watched his retreat. Claude did, but not for any reason the Lord would be glad to hear. 

Lorenz choked to Claude's left, and Judith to his right was all assessment of his own reaction. It would appear as though Lady Daphnel were waiting for him to be struck by lightning. What she failed to realize was that lightning only struck that which had an opposite charge. Lord Aubert wanted to be a Duke. Why? Claude did not know. Not knowing made Claude's skin crawl. 

"Who will you parade me by next?" He asked, wanting very much to forget about his frustrating failure to be all-knowing.

Lorenz' gaze swept over the room before Judith cut in. "Lady Edmund is here tonight."

"She is," Lorenz brightened a shade pinker than even Lord Aubert had left him. 

"She is from a house seated at the roundtable," Claude noted, winking Judith's way. 

"Yes, I was made aware when they were seated." It did not work to stop her from this line of thought. "She is kind, intelligent, already a friend, and Edmund does not lack as an ally."

Claude could only sigh. He looked back to Lorenz, watched a light being snuffed out behind his eyes. There seemed to be only one option; which was disappointing, to say the least. He had not even begun to tire. This scheme was meant to be employed later in the evening, when he needed a break. But this was important to Lorenz and—ass that he may be—Lorenz was important to Claude. 

And so, Claude gave the signal. He scratched his chin as though mulling over the option and let his eyes only glance briefly towards his vassal approaching with haste from the corner of the ballroom. Nardel, lacking for all the subtlety his former pupil excelled in, executed his task perfectly. 

"We've a score to settle, Judith!" He bellowed. 

“ _Lady_ Daphnel!” Judith hissed back. “And I do not appreciate your tone.”

Lorenz blinked, taking only an instant to rise from the endless chasm of his own blushing admirations to the task of defending a Fódlan lady’s honour. It was typical to him, entirely planned, a habit of propriety the man never could shake. While Nader in gruff whispers, began to pick his fight, Claude took Lorenz by the shoulder and led him off just far enough that Judith would not hear them. 

“It’s a ploy,” Claude said, patting Lorenz’s back. “Now, go see to your Marianne.”

“She is not—!” Lorenz stumbled over his own words, eyes searching for the lady and tearing back to the conflict between Nader and Judith. “You bid Nardel to quarrel? With Lady Daphnel? Here!? That is—”

“Lady Daphnel can take care of herself,” Claude said. “Meanwhile, Marianne will spend the whole night alone on the wall without your interference.”

“Preposterous!” Lorenz huffed. “Hilda would never allow—”

“Hilda had business tonight,” Claude frowned. “She could not attend.”

Lorenz’s face dropped all at once, the bluster draining from him. Mumbling something about how Lady Daphnel was ‘more than capable,’ and that ‘a song or two could do no harm’ Lorenz tore away through the crowd. It frightened even Claude how terribly predictable his friend was, even with all the growing he had done since they met. 

With no one left to impede him, the Duke went about that activity which he enjoyed most at a party: hunting society secrets. Usually his first start would be with Hilda but she, as he had mentioned before to Lorenz, was not present. She had claimed business to be in the way of her attendance, but in truth Claude suspected her brother's appearance might have been the more impactful factor. So Claude took his next best option and asked Miss Audra. She was a small girl with wide eyes and alert ears, by far the best employment decision he had ever made. While he lacked Hilda's input of the goings on outside this hall, Miss Audra was more than capable of providing insights from within his home. 

"I think I heard Duke Goneril telling each lady here tonight that she looks 'magnificent,'" Miss Audra told him as he helped her refill refreshments at one of the emptier tables along the wall. "Reading from a script. I've seen him fall flat with ladies before, so if he is taking care it may be because he is taking the marriage mart more seriously this year."

Holst intended to marry soon, then? It was good news for Claude. Another Duke on the market may take some attention from himself. 

"We have more Lords and Ladies from the Empire come to town this season. I don't know what Your Grace will make of that, but I'm not so oblivious as to think that unimportant," she noted. "There's Lord Aubert, Ser Bergliez, and Mr. Leclerc and Mrs. Arnault with a guest as well."

It certainly was something to note. The last pair especially was an interesting appearance. They had been in Derdriu for the social season before but they were hardly so regular as to attend the opening ball. Besides that, all past attendance had been accounted for by Mrs. Arnault touring or performing somewhere in the city. Claude would have heard if a Dorothea Arnault show was in town. That left the reason for their being here either to Yuri—a possibility in equal parts welcome and alarming—or to this unknown guest. Claude's skin was crawling again. 

Claude acquired the most detailed description he could of the guest from Miss Audra. "She's hard to miss, that one: dressed all up in white like she's a star, dark hair, short but stands very tall, walks likes she has somewhere to be” 

And the lady was, as Miss Audra had said, very hard to miss. It took Claude only a moment searching through the crowd for dark hair to find the woman who looked most like she had somewhere to be. Claude watched her. One of the lady's gloved hands clung to the wall, yet she stood with a pleasant arch to her posture that made her look to be in no less than the best of conditions. She walked to the closed, curtained doors of the terrace and fiddled with the golden knobs a while before finally realizing the door was to be pushed and not pulled. Quiet as a mouse, he watched her slip through the door onto the terrace and disappear beyond the curtained glass windows. 

Much harder to find than the lady—who Claude felt less wary of now, having changed her status in his mind from an unknown to a particularly attractive wallflower—were her hosts. Dorothea Arnault Claude gave up all chance of seeing past the wall of admirers that surrounded her. No conversation could be had with that woman in anything resembling confidence. Yuri, on the other hand, was not a man to be found if he did not want to be. Luckily for Claude, he was the Duke, and that had at least some sway in the process of the gentleman's decision making. After some well placed questions and dropping of Yuri's name, Mr. Leclerc appeared at his side as though smoke while Claude watched his freedom simmer away as Judith began to calm in her discussions with Nader. 

“Your Grace, lovely to see you,” Yuri offered his hand to shake. “Not yet finished making your rounds for the night?”

“You as well, Mr. Leclerc. And no,” Claude gave Yuri one stark nod. An impolite ‘unfortunately’ went unsaid. “I will have the help of Lady Daphnel and Ser Lorenz for that task in due time.”

“Naturally,” Yuri said. “I am sure they have acquired you only the most interesting company.”

“That is a way to put it,” Claude said. He turned, ensuring once again that his helpers were still otherwise engaged with Nader and Marianne. “Speaking of interesting company, the lady you and Mrs. Arnault came here with—" 

“Miss Eisner, Byleth Eisner,” Yuri answered before the question could be finished. He had followed Claude’s gaze, felt the press of time on the Duke almost as keenly as though he himself risked Lady Daphnel’s ire. “She’s a family friend. We met after business with her father and—seeing as we are so fond of her—Dorothea and I have decided to host her for her debut. We could think of no more accommodating a city for newcomers than Derdriu.”

Claude was not surprised to hear it was the lady’s first season, what with how she clung to the wall. 

“Where is she from?”

“Rural Faerghus, I think,” Yuri pursed his lips. “I am afraid she is not very experienced with this madness, but with luck she will become accustomed enough to enjoy the season."

"Ah, a poor country flower plucked by the stem and handed to this lot," Claude said. "I saw her slip out to the terrace looking a little overwhelmed. I do not envy her position."

"Country flower?" Yuri smiled. The expression reminded Claude of some of his own carefully curated ones. "Yes. The poor thing. Your Grace, would you do me the honour of speaking with the petal? She is rather delicate. A welcome to the city from the Sovereign Duke would do a great deal to lift her spirits."

Yuri was lucky speaking with the lady was already Claude's intention. If it were not, he would have run as fast as he was able from such an obvious scheme to have Yuri's guest seen speaking with him. Claude was unsure of the objective—to accumulate social capital for himself, garner awareness of the lady for her own prospects, something else, perhaps?—but, regardless, his pride as a host was at stake. And besides all that, he always had a soft spot for fellow outsiders.

"How about a deal, Leclerc?" Claude said. "If you can keep Lady Daphnel and Lord Gloucester occupied a while longer, I will offer Miss Eisner a dance."

"A hard bargain," Yuri hummed thoughtfully. "But I think I can manage that."

* * *

It took a word coughed beneath Yuri’s breath to boil Judith and Nader’s argument back to it’s precipice. Meanwhile, Lorenz would need coaxing away from Marianne at this point in their conversation. A hard bargain indeed, Claude thought as he slipped out. 

Across the all but empty terrace and without a sea of bodies between them, Claude could see Miss Eisner more clearly. Her dark hair, which he had thought black from afar, was a nearly raven blue. It was pinned up in a simple bun, only a white, fluffy feather was added for ornamentation. The curve of her face was soft, round, and her features open. Elegantly framed by a fringe ending just at her brow and tendrils of hair on either side not gathered into her bun. She managed still to look sophisticated, rather than overly fragile. 

Miss Eisner appeared fashionable too. Though she did not sport the usual opulent shows of wealth on her person, Miss Eisner was styled carefully. She wore a long, simple white dress with a hem that only just brushed the tops of her blush coloured dancing shoes. Her sleeves were long, in accordance with sensible winter styles, and her soft pink gloves only peeked from the draping ruffles that ended the garment over her hands. The silhouette of her dress sported the popular empire waistline, fitted perfectly to accentuate the curves of her body beneath. Claude admired the details. He wondered briefly if the work was Hilda's. There was a certain sensuality that marked the way her work fit around womens' forms, in all their variance. He found the shapes almost celebratory. Claude concluded if Hilda had not made the dress herself, she had at least been the one to fit it.

“I heard a rumour there is a guest at my ball in my house who is not, in fact, having the time of their life.” Claude donned the best of his smiles for Miss Eisner. She stepped from the railing, fumbling to find her courtesy a half second longer than was customary to most Derdrite ladies. With the tilt of her head and the stilted bend of her knee, he found the smile on his mask quirking up for one genuine moment. “Naturally, I am in pursuit. Is there any chance you have seen the guest in question?”

“Your Grace,” Miss Eisner’s face did not shift as he approached to stand beside her. She was stiff, even as he relaxed his shoulders and summoned a warmth to his expression that often made even the most timid of his guests comfortable. “That would be me. My apologies.”

“No apology necessary,” the Duke shifted to lean his elbow on the rail and crossed one ankle over the other. He observed how the calculated recline put the lady more at ease; a useful note for reference in future. “I am sorry to have not arranged a proper introduction earlier tonight. Mr. Leclerc informed me that it is your first season, and your first proper visit to Derdriu. I feel I’ve not done you my due diligence in welcoming you.”

“Yuri—” Miss Eisner cleared her throat, eyes finally meeting his. They were a deep and dark blue, not so unlike the night sky. Claude glanced just above her head—a brief fault in his act—to compare the colour quickly with the great expanse beyond the stars. “Mr. Leclerc has told you about me?”

“He has,” Claude nodded, broadening his grin. “It is a pleasure to have you here, Miss Eisner. Please, let me know if there is anything I can do to ensure your comfort in my city.”

There was an instant when Claude thought she might speak, a pull of her lips that suggested their parting, but Miss Eisner only gulped. “I am fine at present, thank you.”

"Fine at present," he spoke quietly, leaning towards the lady with a conspiratorial smirk. "Well, that doesn't sound like the time of your life, does it?"

The pull on her lips spread out and, slowly, like witnessing the dawn peeking over the Throat, Claude watched her face rise into the smallest of smiles. "You are single-minded, Your Grace."

"I prefer goal oriented," Claude stood straight, squaring his shoulders again, and offered his arm to the lady. "Might I have the honour of your first dance, Miss Eisner?"

It took her less time to decide on her answer than it had for her to gather her wits before. The lady tucked her hand into the crook of Claude's arm, a quiet acceptance if he'd ever seen one. As he rejoined the party with her, Claude became keenly aware of her other hand resting on his upper arm and, through his coat, giving it an almost curious squeeze.

* * *

A waltz was a sure and steady dance. It moved in a simple pattern easy for most to learn and difficult for any to master; so Claude felt quite confident when he pulled Miss Eisner onto the floor as the band began to play in a three-four time. That confidence was an infectious thing, allowing Byleth to settle into the kind brace of Duke Riegan’s hand at the small of her back. She needed only to follow the Duke in a routine which appeared well-rehearsed to him. 

That could be all, she thought. She could allow herself to be twirled across the room and then recede once more at the song’s finish into the shadows of the ball. She could watch the motions of art pieces sweeping over the hall, adorned on bodies she counted herself a part from. It would be simple; yet she had not come to Derdriu for simple. Byleth had to come so that for once she might enjoy a pass time that went relegated to a dusty old trunk she almost never opened. Byleth came here to dance, to live, and to be unapologetically impractical in dresses she never got to wear. She had a chance now to be the art in motion she so admired. Were Byleth part of this painting, she had every intention of breathing life into it.

Byleth took her hand from the Sovereign Dukes and, taking full advantage of the lean strength she had tested when she held his arm, she began a shift of her weight. She swept her skirt into her grasp and allowed the hidden layers of pearlescent pink organza just under the hem to catch the light as it fluttered around her ankles. Like a butterfly’s wing, she thought. The fabric brushed over the tops of her shoes, over her leg, and—with a sharper turn at the corner of the dance floor—it trailed behind her in the air. Byleth heard a breath almost like a sigh from behind her. Over the Duke’s shoulder she could see a man, all in red, turning a bright shade of pink that matched his hair. 

“Do people always stare when you dance?” Byleth asked. Directing her attention back to her dance partner’s eyes. She smiled a little in apology and added quietly, “Your Grace.”

“People pretend to care when I dance,” the Duke’s grin was different than it had been before. She saw the white flash of his teeth and something brighter in the way his nose wrinkled a little with a laugh. He looked very much as though he had gotten away with something. “I think tonight all eyes are on you.”

Duke Riegan sailed into their next steps, his feet anchoring at the end of the set to dip Byleth back. His hold was secure, solid, and Byleth allowed her neck to arch back so she could return the audience’s gaze just once more. She breathed deeply as the Duke raised her back into the circle of his arms. She did not fail to notice he held her closer than before. 

“You are a natural,” he whispered in her ear. “You may have to fend suitors off with a stick when we are done, Miss Eisner.”

“Thank you for the warning.” Byleth focused squarely back on him. “I am sorry if this is rude, but, um, could you call me by my name? I am only ever called Eisner when someone reprimands me. It’s unsettling.”

“Byleth then,” the Duke said. His mask softened as they cut down the middle of the floor, spinning faster all the way. Byleth felt a pleasant rush when they fell back into the box step and Duke Riegan spoke once more. “I hope you will forgive me for asking after you.”

“I am a stranger in your home,” Byleth said. “I will not begrudge you your interests.”

“That is good,” Duke Riegan chuckled as the music slowed. He brought Byleth through a rocking sway one way then the other as the strings petered out. “I do think you will have to withstand my interest a while longer. I’m curious to see what a wildflower fully bloomed will make of this garden of mine.”

Byleth raised a brow, ready to retort, but she was cut off by clapping for the band as the dancers came to a halt. She bit her lip, joining along and watching the slow dispersal of the couples and shuffling of partners begin. When the last of the applause died down and she once more parted her lips Byleth was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. The man who had watched her from the crowd just moments ago bowed his head when she turned to meet him. 

The Duke cleared his throat and stepped to Byleth’s side. His hand extended towards the man now rising with a dashing smile of his own to match Duke Riegan’s. “Miss Eisner, this gentleman here is Duke Holst Goneril.”

“Ah!” Byleth’s shoulders squared on an instinct, even as she bent into her curtsy. “Byleth Eisner, Your Grace.”

“I do not suppose I could interest you in a dance, Miss Eisner?” Duke Goneril asked. 

Byleth wrung her skirt in her hands, glancing between the two Dukes. Both wore smiles that promised different things. Duke Riegan seemed aloof, spoke in riddles, however poetic he made them; his company was a pleasing one. If she had inherited anything from her father, however, it was good business sense. Finally, taking Duke Riegan’s elbow in her grasp, she nodded to Goneril. 

“I would like that very much, Your Grace. May I have just a moment with His Grace?” Tracking the titles even in just that sentence felt exhausting.

When Duke Goneril gave his courteous assent Byleth followed Duke Riegan just between where guests were preparing for the next number and the rest of the party mingled. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Byleth curtsied. “I am under no illusion I would have made such a positive impression on Derdriu society without your help tonight.” 

“Not at all,” he answered, waving her thanks away as though it were nothing but an insect buzzing between them. “‘Anything I can do to ensure your comfort in my city,’ remember?”

“Thank you,” Byleth felt her face warm with the kindness. “I look forward to seeing you again, Your Grace. I am curious as to how you will achieve your goal.”

Claude's smile faltered only mildly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Did you think one dance would be the time of my life?” Byleth looked up at him through her lashes, huffed a little. His presumptions had not passed civility, but Byleth felt at least a little indignant. “You and I can get up to much better things. I would put money on that.”

The Duke went blank, a coppery shade rising over his cheeks slowly as he blinked until, by progression, it became a deep red. He opened his mouth, as though to speak, but all that came out was an awkward snort before his hand raised to hide a smile breaking across his face. 

Byleth was taken aback for a moment, leaning in to ask in hushed worry, “Your Grace, have I said something wrong?”

“Stop, stop,” he laughed one hand pressed to his stomach as though he could cut off the merriment at its source. “You can’t say something like _that_ and then call me ‘Your Grace.’”

Byleth did not quite take his meaning or understand what that meant but from the sympathy in his smile when his laughter died down, he seemed to have guessed that much. 

“My friends call me Claude,” he whispered. “And I’d be a happy man if you would too.”

* * *

“You had a line of dukes waiting for a dance with you,” Dorothea had declared excitedly on the carriage ride back. 

Byleth reminded her companion that two dukes did not constitute a line. Yuri, quick as ever with his barbs, argued for his wife’s side. If a country had only two dukes then certain exceptions had to be made. Two dukes could, under such circumstances, be considered a crowd. Dorothea laughed and Byleth had only the presence to smile. She excused herself when they arrived home. Dorothea offered to go with her up the stairs and help with undressing but Byleth refused her. Her hosts thought nothing of this. Byleth’s world was contained within herself and it took a great deal of energy for her to leave it. This was a thing well understood by her friends, and so they only bid her goodnight. 

Byleth slipped her dress over her head, too impatient to undo all but the top buttons along her back. She stepped out of the pink organza shift as well, and folded both with care over the chair by her writing desk before sitting on the bed. She felt she was burning, even with the most covering pieces of clothing removed from her. Byleth's breast heaved beneath her chemise and corset. Had she been breathing so heavily all night, or was it only now as heat closed in around her and memories of it all swam through her mind? She felt sure she had not been so stuffed into the boned piece before. She shook her head, discarded her gloves on her bedside. Trying to shake the heat from her mind, Byleth parted her knees and pulled the hem of her soft cotton underskirts up her leg. She found herself shivering, raising gooseflesh along the trail where her knuckle brushed over her skin. Ah, so that was it. 

Byleth knew enough of her body to recognize this sensitivity. It was the itch she scratched carefully; when huddled close in a camp with other mercenaries, tact became a requirement of the act. She would find, for the night, a quiet place. She would press her back to the bark of a tree, cover her mouth with one hand and go about it as unceremoniously as if she were fulfilling any other function of her body. It was odd, however, for this to happen now. Seeing so many new faces, being amongst all the energy and noise of a crowd, it usually left her feeling leaden; whereas desire was a charge that kept her awake. 

Slowly, Byleth shifted back on her bed. Tonight was new: she met people, danced, and enjoyed the luxury of empty time like she never had before. What was one more new indulgence in the face of all that? She lay back, sighing at the feeling of warm, delicate sheets beneath her. She arched her back, testing the flex of the mattress beneath her writhing body. Already she moaned at the comfort of it all. Carefully, as though she were lifting a curtain over a bird cage, Byleth gathered her skirts further up around her hips. 

In a first gentle motion, she ran her hand over the heat between her legs. Already she could feel a pulsing there at the touch, and warmth. She hissed at the sensation of wetness along her fingers. Byleth pressed then at her opening, already slick and relaxed enough to take in the length of a digit. 

“Oh,” Byleth sighed, head falling back. 

She pulled out of herself and raised that finger up to push away the folds over her bud. It was as swollen as she had suspected. Her brow creased when she ran her wet finger tips in a circle around her clit. Instinct took over from there as she lifted her legs up, holding the bend of one knee as she worked at herself. Byleth rubbed eagerly, humming quietly, reaching out for the pinnacle of her pleasure. She could not help, however, but to strain for something that was missing. 

Missing? But what could be missing? Byleth lowered the hand that held her knee, tested her opening once more with her fingers. She moaned and squirmed but found no relief. She needed something more, she thought. She needed something tighter, heavier, something hard to press into her body, over her body. Just as she thought this, the memory of Duke Riegan raising her up from a dip, the way he had fit against her as he held her close, came rushing to Byleth’s mind. 

Byleth’s finger was more vigorous with her pace on her clit. Her other hand lifted to fly out towards the pillows laid beside her in the bed. She pulled the smallest one over, held it tight to her chest. Her only regret was that it was not quite large enough to wrap her legs around as she came. 

With release Byleth felt the pressure of her body against her undergarments build and then, very suddenly fall. She was as warm and overheated as she had been before, but once more all garments felt a more comfortable fit to her, less like a cage. Byleth groaned, pushing the pillow aside and standing to walk to her wash basin. 

Duke Riegan, she thought to herself. She’d not expected that. But, if she was making allowances for things she had denied herself, who would be a better option than a beautiful man who still owed her the time of her life?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would kiss you again,” Byleth said. Ah, and her smile was back: a soft easily missed nuance of her mien. “I would let you kiss me, if you preferred.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmmmm, I accidentally wrote a nearly 11 000 word chapter? It was a shock to me too. I only realized it was this long after I was too far in!! I very much hope you guys enjoy this big chonky chapter boyyo I have constructed for you. 
> 
> also, a quick guide for some names and terms mentioned here:
> 
> Redingote - A women's long coat used in cold weather and styled to look like a dress.
> 
> Hachgydd - The Goneril estate name; prononced as hack-gwith.

Byleth woke long after the sun the morning after her first ball. One could hardly be blamed for accepting such a happenstance blindly; beds, pillows, and sheets were a luxury most prized on the road individually, much less all together. She had promised herself, as well, a certain amount of indulgence for the months to come. Still, it felt more than an impropriety to her, the schedules of an ever-moving camp etched behind the lids of her eyes. This is why, when Dorothea had made clear her approval of Byleth’s late rising—insisting no apology or regret for it being uttered—she could not help but to feel ill at ease.

Yuri, a creature as practical as Byleth in his own ways, offered a little comfort. “If one of mine does not have at least eight hours a night of sleep I will keep them from the field. There is no shame in catching up.”

“Especially with all the excitement last night,” Dorothea added. “And such excitement goes on, as it has a tendency to do.”

Dorothea was studied not only in the ways of the nobility, but also those of people and their more general fancies. She had readied the parlour for a reception by the early afternoon and—with assurances to Byleth and Yuri that some caller was sure to come—she herded them into the room to wait. It did not take even a quarter hour before the hostess was proved correct. 

Messengers came, one behind the other, with bouquets, envelopes sealed with duchal stationery, and messages meant to be relayed to Miss Eisner. The first was carried by a young man in a military coat of gold and red—for Leicester and for Goneril, respectively. The other was a tall, broad, older man in a long brown coat and breeches that would not look out of place walking on Derdriu’s streets. Of all the things Byleth observed of the second gentleman, the most noteworthy was the particular amused attention Yuri paid him from his armchair in the parlour’s corner. 

The first, the soldier, stepped forward and handed Byleth a bouquet of bright violet gentians with a letter from Duke Goneril. “His Grace wishes to convey his regrets he could not call personally, but the roundtable has business today. He also wishes to extend to you an open invitation to visit Hachgwydd Park at your leisure.”

Byleth nodded, setting both the letter and the bouquet aside. By the meaning of gentians—a hope or celebration of success—and the tone of the messenger Byleth could guess well enough the contents of the letter. She considered briefly that she would need to send word to her father before taking advantage of Duke Goneril’s offer to host her; the right word here or there could be a distinct boon to the company.

The second shuffled past the first as soon as Goneril’s offerings were set aside. He gave a cheery “apologies” when his shoulder knocked up on the young soldier’s. It was barely enough to move the man; and from the genuine grin that burst from the messenger’s face, Byleth could not tell if it was an intentional action taken. “His Grace wanted you to have these, so here they are,” he said, holding out a more mismatched bouquet for the lady which contained a letter peeking out from the blooms.

"He's sorry he could not come himself, but, as this lad said, the roundtable keeps him occupied. His exact words were he would rather 'frolic in wildflowers than march through thistles.'" The man turned his head, letting out some dry laughter and speaking next almost entirely to himself. "That boy and his poetry."

Byleth made a special effort not to glance towards Yuri when he chuckled audibly, and instead directed her eyes to the flowers held in her lap. They were a mismatch of colours, shapes, and meanings that offered no visual cohesion or message that she could decipher. Each flower did, however, fall very much into a theme; she was more likely to see them on the roadside than on display at a florist’s shop. She supposed Claude was very much invested in ‘his poetry.’

“Thank you very much for your delivery, gentlemen,” Dorothea stood, arm extended towards the door. “If there’s nothing else, allow me to show you to the foyer and fetch you each a purse for your troubles.”

The soldier turned, smiling, and began to make his thanks to the lady of the house, but Riegan’s messenger remained. His grin faltered the slightest bit, and he inclined his head. His eyes lingered on Duke Riegan’s letter. 

“Aren’t you going to read it, girl?” The man asked. 

Dorothea stalled in her place, the veil of hospitality fluttering away to leave only blinking confusion in his wake. Yuri crossed one leg over another and beamed, first at the back of the messenger’s head and then at Byleth when he met her gaze. Neither tried to remove the man, or spoke out at what she understood to be rather coarse phrasing—at least, it was considered such when her father spoke much the same way, if less jovially. Assessing the man meant no harm, Byleth sat straighter and plucked the envelope from her bouquet. 

“Who are you?” Byleth asked, surmising the messenger must be a known party in Derdriu. Yuri seemed aware of him, at the very least; and Dorothea would have insisted on more agreeable conduct from a stranger.

Dorothea hurried the soldier out the parlour door and, with a word to the lady waiting there, scurried back to make a more proper introduction. “Miss Eisner, this is Ser Nardel. He is a retainer to Duke Riegan. Ser, this is—”

“Odd name that!” Nardel said. “Byleth…Byleth…I would ask where it is from, but I am in no position to be pressing anyone on things like names and origins. You understand!” Dorothea smiled and nodded along. Yuri pressed a hand to his reddening cheek, looking ready to burst with laughter any moment. “So, Miss Eisner, will you be reading the letter?”

“Eventually…” Byleth paused, considering the man. “Did His Grace order you to deliver my answer presently?”

“No,” Nardel answered, shaking his head. His eyes widened, as though an idea had struck him then. “Or yes! Yes, he wanted your answer but did not order it, per se.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Byleth said.

Nardel’s head flew back, voice breaking out into raucous laughter. “You are a spit fire! I see why the boy fancies you."

Byleth was not, by nature, a woman who bent easily to the whims of those around her; she was seldom inclined to indulge strangers even in mannerly ways outside particular settings. That said, she felt warmth bubbling in her chest. Perhaps it was because Nardel had such an honest, natural bearing, not unlike her father's; or that Nardel was close to the man who occupied no small portion of her attention for now. There was a chance, as well, that she sought somehow to reward him for the hope his words had leant her in saying Claude fancied her. No matter the reason, Byleth tore open the seal and skimmed the letter with a haste she had learned while reading briefings. 

Later she would pour over it in more detail, let a flush come to her face at what she recognized as a pragmatic show of affection she understood very well. Byleth would allow herself a moment alone to truly feel the warm and rare flutter in her belly. Until then, she would satisfy the curiosity of the messenger. 

“Duke Riegan sends his hopes that I make good use of the flowers,” Byleth said, folding the parchment once more. “And he instructs me to seek out Miss Goneril should I ever have any business with him.”

“Ah, and if I don’t believe you?” Nardel smirked. 

Byleth shrugged and picked a dried out petal from one of the lavender flowers in the bouquet. “I feel no need to convince you.”

Nardel left with thanks and a chuckle with as little trouble as he came. Dorothea shook her head after seeing him out. Byleth could not tell whether she was more overwhelmed or entertained. She may have been both; after all, though Dorothea tended to adore less conventional manners, she remained fiercely protective of those few she called friends. Yuri remained only happy with the afternoon’s diversion. He assured Byleth and his confused wife that Nardel was nothing more than a “harmless and nosy eccentric.” 

Byleth did not care too much what Nardel was. He seemed pleasant enough, refreshing in a way. His countenance was one Byleth felt much more familiar with. She liked him well enough. Nardel’s lord—she smiled once more, tracing her fingers over the final lines of Claude’s letter—she may have liked him too well.

* * *

Dear Byleth, 

I hope I am not too presumptuous in my address, but as you have instructed me to call you by your given name I remain mostly confident you will not mind. 

I hear you are from Faerghus, and lodge most often in the country; so I hope you will enjoy this gift. I have made sure to include only those flowers with the widest range of uses and which can be stored with relative ease and safety. I hope to hear that they serve you well when next we meet. If they do not, I entreat you to tell me instead what I might secure you. 

Should you ever desire to call on me—as I am told I am a most useful connection!—our mutual acquaintance, Miss Goneril, will always know the best and fastest way to reach me. Her word travels faster than any letter could. 

Sincerely,

Claude

P.S., It would be a great favour to me if you might think on what it is you would like for “the time of your life.”

* * *

Claude’s good memory was a natural talent he counted himself most fortunate for. He put it to use often: memorizing everything from maps, geography, history, wordings down to the letter, and other politically potent pieces of trivia. However, there were times he paid a price for this gift. His mind might recall all the errors ever made when he tried to rest or to sleep. Harsh words that had hurt him in his boyhood could be recited back to him with impunity. But the worst of it all was what happened directly after he had taken action, and before he knew the results; Claude would pick apart every detail and think of the millions of ways in which a plan could fail. A letter to a new acquaintance was not usually the sort of action taken that could evoke such a tumultuous response from him. Yet he could barely keep himself from falling to pieces analyzing his words, even as he sat at the roundtable—or it may be especially because he sat at the roundtable. 

Count Gloucester was droning about the same topic he had been dragging his heels on for the past three months: sewage. Claude, as the highest authority of Riegan holdings, had free rein over what could be done in Derdriu. Taking advantage of this fact, he implemented the first fully functioning sewage and water supply system Fódlan had ever seen. Public baths, laundries, and wells made clean water, and hygiene available to the masses. The efficient displacement of waste saw the spread of disease and illness cut in half. In two years time the city was set to reach their goal of having running water in every home. Given these results it had been easy for Claude to convince the more progressive lords and ladies of the table to move forward with a similar initiative on a national scale. Gloucester and his cronies, on the other hand, had but one gripe. 

“Waste is disposed of household-by-household, each citizen responsible for their own…production,” Gloucester argued the first time as he did the next, and the next, and the next. “As long as the waste is moved away from the population I see little point in regulating as to how: through Riegan’s expensive, dirty tubes, or for no cost by the people themselves.”

Count Gloucester incensed Claude when he had first met the man. Now he bored him. He bored Claude enough that his mind drifted to a pretty woman, a bouquet, a letter, its wording. That was the most sinister thing about Gloucester: the longer he spoke the less attention he was given, the less attention he was given the more damage he could do. And there was damage. Every hour that passed before the necessary pipes were laid there were more people around Leicester dying of problems Claude had the solution to. He could not allow the pouting fossil to lure him away from the issue. But damn it if Claude’s nervous, wandering mind did not help him do just that!

When the same swill ceased to pour from the man Claude smiled, leaned an arm to one side of his chair, and gazed about the room at his peers. “Thank you for your input again today, lords and ladies. You all know, but I must remind you we have closing arguments and the vote on the docket next week. We are adjourned.”

“At last, the matter will rest!” Gloucester scoffed, being sure to make himself heard above all the rising and shuffling of members at the table and witnesses in the gallery. 

Claude only gave him a nod. “Indeed it will.”

When the last of the people had drained from the gallery boxes into the hall he stepped out to follow the rest of Leicester’s leaders. Claude nodded to all parties of import as he cut through the convening crowd. He aimed especially warm smiles to both those seated lords he knew to be fighting the battle to ward off Gloucester’s efforts as hard as he: Holst and Edmund. The two men were not always counted among his allies—being both independently powerful, and having their own singular interests—but given a choice between upholding the divide between the common citizen and the nobility, or making tangible improvements to Leicester’s average quality of life, Claude could consistently predict which they would choose. At last, reaching the mouth of the hall, Claude came to stand with Lorenz—who found himself with some unusual company.

“Lord Aubert,” Claude addressed the man with all his practiced pleasantries. “Were you in the gallery for today’s meeting?”

“Yes, indeed. I saw the whole nasty business.” The Adrestian visitor sighed and pressed a hand to his cheek. “Ser Lorenz talked me through the heart of the issue, gentleman that he is.” Claude watched the hand Aubert reached out to place on Lorenz’s shoulder. His friend did not tense, flinch, or redden any significant degree. “It is good to see such like-minded young nobles allying themselves so firmly for the good of the people, even given the differences in their background.”

Claude’s jaw set tightly, teeth gritting before he could stop himself. Aubert did not know, could not know; he meant only to allude to well-recorded conflicts in Riegan and Gloucester’s past. Yet he remained a stranger making uncomfortable allusions. Logically he knew it may have been a prejudice born of his own fears; but his gut felt to be rolling uncomfortably inside him. He managed to stop the scowl that nearly pulled back his lips, redirecting the energy upwards into a polite smile.

“You flatter us,” Claude said. “It so pleases me to have an honourable guest to Leicester with such an interest in my people and their welfare.”

Aubert made no attempt to hide his frown, nor did he seek to correct the expression as Claude saw it. “That smile, it is my cue to leave, I think. It was good to speak with you, Ser Lorenz. Your Grace.” Lord Aubert gave Lorenz a shallow bow, then Claude a deeper one. He rose to look Claude in the eye, leaving on one last note: “I hope you should come to know me as an honest man.”

Claude did not cease his watch of Aubert as he made his exit from the hall. Lorenz remained silent at his side as they then proceeded to take their own route of escape. Through a parlour, a hidden servants passage, and the bustle of the kitchens the two men walked. It was only when they had left through the side of the building, stuffing themselves into the discreet little box carriage that awaited them, that Lorenz set off on his lecture. 

Somewhere in his mind Claude knew himself to be deserving of a scolding, but he had not the energy to listen. There was so much outside his control: Gloucester’s faction, the wellness of his people, Judith and Lorenz parading him on the marriage market, now this stranger. This outsider, Claude huffed and felt like just another mighty hypocrite. If he was honest, it was possible the man only spooked him as a fool might spook at his own reflection. Fear and stress had made an unkind fool of Claude before; he should have known better, tried harder. 

“I am sorry,” Claude rested his head in his hands, appreciating the deep dark cover of his palms over his eyes. “I am just…I am tired, Lorenz.”

His friend leaned forward in the carriage, taking him by the jaw. Lorenz managed to raise his head for inspection before Claude swatted his hand away with a snort. 

“You’ve been sleeping, at least,” Lorenz said as a matter of fact. The sight of a Claude who had gone too many days without sleep was not unfamiliar; he knew what he saw and it was not deprivation. “When did you last take a break?”

Claude began his answer before Lorenz raised his hand. 

“Sleep is not a break,” he reminded him. 

He sighed for having thought of such an answer. Of course sleep was not a break: not with the dreams Claude had. Leaning back in his seat and combing his fingers through his hair, Claude took a deep breath. He could not recall when he had last truly taken a break. 

He did know when he last felt rested, however. That very morning he had woken with a clarity, a presence of mind, that was rare these days. It had stayed with him long enough to write a letter to the lady from the night before—Byleth, she had wanted to be called. She was pretty, blunt in a way that refreshed him, and earnest. In short, she was the only person in a filled ballroom from whom Claude had nothing to fear; and for one blissful dance, his attention had been entirely on her. His letter had inspired his usual anxieties after, but perhaps he need not think so hard on it. He must have been as nervous before, in his boyhood perhaps? Again, he could not recall. 

“The Ice Promenade opens, day after next,” Lorenz said. “I will book a private room at _Repartea_ and you will take the afternoon to enjoy the event.”

“You’re setting me loose on the town?” Claude indulged in a humourless chuckle.

“Do not pretend you need minding now,” Lorenz said. “You will find something safe to entertain yourself with. Besides, I attended the Academy with you; I know how you like to wander about on your lonesome.”

Claude closed his eyes a moment. The tall, cold halls of Garreg Mach at night flooded his vision. Those night strolls to and from the restricted areas, in and out of secret passages long forgotten, were still among his most treasured memories. 

“Fine,” he relented at last. “If you think it will help clear my head.”

“It will help you act less like an ass as well,” Lorenz said. 

Claude grimaced as his head fell against the glass of the carriages window. 

“Our plan. It will work?” Claude asked. “My taking a break will not—”

“It will work.” Lorenz spoke sternly. “So long as you do not snap so.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose. “Alright then. I trust you.”

Claude knew the silence that followed to be their mutual understanding. They sat together all the way to Riegan estate in silent and solemn understanding. 

* * *

The rest of the day and the one after that passed by uneventfully. Byleth spent her time mostly in the drawing room. It was there her friends' house had a little cushioned nook by a window, placed very near the fireplace. She had brought one of her favourite books—an epic poem of a girl hunted throughout Fódlan by a red wolf—and paced herself in reading it. Dorothea, Yuri, or both might come to sit with her an hour or two and look over the flyers and prints of new fashions. Some were interesting, some inspiring, and some were just an easy source of laughter. 

When neither of these things drew her attention she would pen a message to her father on her stay thus far, making sure to mention a very promising business connection made with Duke Goneril. She tapped her quill in the corner of the parchment when it came time to mention the Sovereign Duke as well, for surely that connection too was of import. What potential it carried that she could relay to her father, however, was very much a question for debate. 

“I have found His Grace, Duke Riegan, to be a most accommodating man.” She finally wrote. “He takes his duty as a host to Derdriu society quite seriously, but without the pomposity I often associate such stances with; for example, he has asked that I call him simply by Claude. He is very agreeable to me.” Byleth bit her lip, reading back over the line. She felt the need to add very quickly, though she could not discern why, “I think you would like him.”

On the third day since the ball Byleth made sure to rise early. It was the opening day of Derdriu’s Ice Promenade: a fair famed continent-wide for its consistent ability to dazzle. Byleth knew there were food stalls, that the main street and surrounding districts were closed off to sleds so people could skate the whole of the canals there, and that art was somehow involved. Dorothea assured her there was much more to the Promenade than that. 

“There is a magic to it,” she said to Byleth. 

The two ladies were helping one another to change into dresses and coats that were both warm and beautifully styled for a walk on the town. In the warm enclosure of Dorothea’s dressing room Byleth felt safe and unhurried—which was decidedly unlike her more common reactions to being underdressed. But, having so set on the path for allowing the new and luxurious, she reclined on Dorothea’s chaise to listen. 

“You will see when we are there, Byleth,” Dorothea went on. Byleth could not help but smile when her friend twirled to admire the way her three layers of petticoats rose up like a cupcake. “But it is the reason I insist on being early. Not many society sorts will be there at the hour—for I suspect only the more romantic of us would care—but there is a moment just before noon when the sun comes over the buildings and the frozen canals seem to glitter like a road of diamonds through the city.”

“That would be a sight,” Byleth admitted. 

“It will be,” Dorothea corrected. She collected a pair of stockings from a nearby drawer and flung them Byleth’s way. “If you let us leave here before then, that is.”

When they did at last emerge from the house all three of their party was bundled tightly. Over a silk lilac waistcoat and dark grey tailcoat Yuri wore a long silver fur coat with ornately carved wood buttons. It had been modified to cinch more about his waist and the collar to fold into a more flattering silhouette, but Byleth could recognize it clearly as Faerghus work. Dorothea wore a crimson redingote—a thick second layer of dressing worn above her indoor attire—which buttoned in the imperial cavalry’s style. Atop both couples heads were top hats, decorated neatly with a feather and modest pin. 

Byleth had chosen for herself something less ornate in its fastenings. Her redingote was a warm thick wool that she simply had to shrug on, wrap around herself, and tie up comfortably beneath her bust. It was dyed to a lovely verdant green shade, and a fur lining of brown and gold pelt ran all along the inside, blooming up along the crossing collar, the end of her sleeves, and the hem that ended just above her boots. She wore her dark hair down over her shoulders—not a style very popular in the city, she was aware, but a winter strategy to keep her ears warm that she’d not deny herself. The waves of her hair spilled out from her little cap, green and wool to match her coat. It covered the top of her head to trap the heat, circled around the back, and was trimmed in pretty gold embroidery to match the ribbon that was tied in a sweet little bow beneath her chin. Though it was simple in comparison to some of the more elaborate—and less practical—styles of other ladies, Byleth was fond of the ensemble. The beautiful green alone was enough of a contrast for her against the white canvas of winter to make her feel like a walking summer day. 

Byleth picked a bit of fluff from the fur trim on her sleeve with her gloved hand during the sled ride to the main street entry. She watched the buildings fly by in blurs, savored the fresh air; and when the sun began to show over the tallest rooftops she grabbed Dorothea’s arm and smiled. Leaning to one side she could look down to see the glittering reflection of light on the ice beneath them. It was as her friend had described; the road was paved with little diamonds. 

“Eyes up, Byleth,” Yuri called from the other side of the sled’s bench. “You’ll not want to miss this.”

She raised her head, blinking up at the arch ahead. She took in the carved ice which sprouted from either edge of the canal and rose up in the pattern of a great stag’s horns. The water was clear and crystal, glowing an ethereal gold along the edges under the kiss of sunlight. She did not even notice as the carriage slowed on approach until her body swung the slightest bit with the horses’ halt. 

“The view is worth the hour, isn’t it?” Yuri sighed as he helped them each out onto the canal and up the stone stairs to the street. 

“I always tell you it is,” Dorothea reminded him, taking his arm. 

“You always tell me,” he sighed. “And you are always so very right.”

Byleth watched the couple pull just ahead of her and the fond look Yuri gave his wife. The softer ways about him were viewed best in this dazzling winter day’s light, Byleth decided. 

“Come along now,” Yuri broke Byleth from her thoughts. “The sculptures are just up ahead.”

“They are my favourite part,” Dorothea said, reaching her free hand back to beckon Byleth forward. 

Taking Dorothea’s gloved hand in her own, Byleth walked alongside them, keeping close to the lady’s side so as not to disrupt the foot traffic. Her hosts pointed out to her a very wide bridge up ahead, curved the slightest bit and running above the canal. The frosted metal rails along the side were prettily decorated with gold ribbons and sparkling crystal ornaments. On the bridge proper there were stands and platforms displaying statues both large and small, earthly and fantastical, that were not so unlike the carved archway in substance. 

Walking over the bridge, coming closer to the sculptures in question, Byleth could not help but marvel at the details. One depicted a wyvern mid-flight, every scale and armoured plate carved with such detail Byleth might have expected the beast to beat her wings at any moment. Another was the likeness of a great lion up on his hind quarters, teeth bared. Byleth split from Dorothea to approach the statue and rise on her tip toes to tap one of his fangs with her leather clad finger. 

What next caught her attention was a large block of ice a few feet taller than herself. She wandered its way to run her hands along a vast imprint of Fódlan: from the far west shores of Adrestia’s Nuvelle all the way to Fódlan’s Throat. Byleth let her fingers trace delicately through a remarkable recreation of the topography over the map, running over plains, mountains, rivers and tundras until she finally settled on the little indent of Derdriu along the northeastern coast. 

Byleth fixed on that point. Try as she might, her eyes would not budge from it. She imagined all this—arches and statues, canals and roads, houses and towers—all contained within that little dot. And she, who felt so small and surrounded by things she thought so grand, was contained within there too: a fraction of a fraction of that little carved dot.

Yuri, with a good natured chuckle and a new twinkle in his eyes, called Byleth back to their side. She walked with the couple once again, tugging on Dorothea’s sleeve when they passed yet more beautiful things to catch her attention. After passing over the first bridge along the street, they weaved to the next, and the next, and the next. Each bridge was its own little world: gallery to the natural, the abstract, the divine. It was when they came to that third and last bridge that Dorothea caught Byleth as her eyes wandered over the bridge’s rail, looking down to the skaters on the canal. 

“Yuri and I have decided to make a second pass of the statues,” she said. “Will you join us?”

“I think I will skate the canal,” Byleth answered. “If that is alright.”

“Oh, but our hearts will weep for you,” Yuri laughed. “Of course it is alright. Enjoy yourself! You can meet us back here within the next hour or so, yes?”

Byleth agreed and assured both Yuri and Dorothea twice over that what coin she had in her purse would be quite sufficient for her wanderings. 

Byleth walked along the side of the canal, taking in the sights of those happy skaters below her—children racing, friends hand in hand, couples on each other's arms—and the smell of pastries and hot ciders from the open windows of various shops along the way. She would not be distracted, however. 

Byleth only veered from the flow of the leisurely foot traffic when she came upon just the stall she was looking for. It was a decent size and well kept. An older man, all bundled up for the weather, manned it. It had cabinets locked up along its side; and between the yokes, where the man stood, floated a small ever-burning flicker of magic to keep him comfortable. 

"How much?" Byleth asked, stepping towards the man at his booth.

"That would be two silvers, miss," the vendor gave her a toothy smile as he adjusted his hat. 

Byleth lowered her head, pulling at the drawstrings of the pouch that hung around her wrist but was cut short by the clearing of a throat behind her. 

"Allow me," spoke a man with a familiar voice, honey smooth and somewhat sweeter. The sound rang close to her ear, the timber raising the memory of a song, a dance, her own fingers between her legs. His hand passed by her side, grazing waist and arm, to give the vendor two times his asking price. "Two pairs if you would, sir."

"Claude," Byleth turned on her heel, trying to step immediately into a short, shallow curtsy. 

The thin layer of ice over the street and beneath her feet found itself great amusement in preventing that. She would have tumbled to the ground were it not for the quick reflexes of the Duke. He gave her his hands to hold, bracing herself on them to rise once more with a burning face. 

He was laughing, but the sound was soft and good-natured. His eyes creased that same way they had briefly when they danced and, in her wonder at the expression, she forgot herself. She kept her hands still in his and watched warmth rise and fizzle out like the ghost of a flame. 

"I am making a very poor habit of sneaking up on you," he said finally. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and chuckled when she pulled back, blushing at the reminder her hands were being held so. "Forgive me, I don't mean to startle you."

"I am not startled only—" flustered, bewildered, distracted? She could not find the word. "I did not expect to see you here. Mrs. Arnault told me nobility hardly ever visits the fair before noon."

Claude's lip pulled into a tight line and he nodded towards the canal. "Do you see the water, how it sparkles at this hour?"

Byleth could not help but smile. "Mrs. Arnault told me only romantics care much for the view."

"Ha! Well," there was a soundless laughter she saw quake in his chest, even beneath his thick tan coat. "You'll not let the word spread too far, I trust." Claude shot her a wink, making it appear the most natural thing in the world to do. Byleth turned a shade pinker, glad when turned his head over his shoulder to scan the people walking by. "Speaking of which, where is the illustrious Mrs. Arnault?"

"Near the statues a few minutes walk from the entry, I expect," Byleth said. "That's where I left her and Mr. Leclerc."

"You wandered off alone?" The Duke's brows shot up. The surprise on his face would have been comical to Byleth were it not so genuine. "Derdriu is a big city and you've only been here what, a week? Less? It could be dangerous, you know."

"I'd not considered," Byleth frowned. "I might have gotten lost quite easily." 

"Lost," Claude echoed her. He blinked, utterly bemused. Byleth shared the sentiment towards his reaction in turn. After a few seconds he let out a puff of air—rising like a puff from a chimney in this cold—and his smile returned in a more practiced way. He managed a chortle to match. "You are an odd one, Miss Eisner."

Claude extended a hand out to her. She took it without much thought and found herself guided over and down to be seated on the vendor's stool. 

"This size should do for the lady," the vendor said. 

He passed the bladed wood soles with leather straps first to Claude. After checking quickly over what his silver had bought them he took a knee before Byleth. His wits must have gathered and sorted themselves quite quickly, for he was all play once more. Claude held out his free hand, one skate in the other and smiled as he had when he first asked her to dance. 

"Might I escort you over the Ice Promenade, Miss Eisner?" Claude asked. "I hear skating can be an even more stimulating activity than dancing."

"Still looking to outdo yourself?" Byleth smiled back at him the slightest bit. She lifted her skirts ever so slightly to place her heel in Claude's waiting hand. "You may escort me so long as you stop calling me Eisner."

"Ah, that is right," Claude said, slipping the skates over Byleth's winter boots. "Eisner sounds like a reprimand. I am sorry. You have simply shocked the manners right back into me!" He fastened the leather and buckles over her shoe and looked up to meet her eye. "Does this feel alright?"

Her brow knit and her lips pursed as she deliberated. She wriggled her toes and stretched out the muscles at the arch of her foot. 

"It's a little tight," she decided. 

A twitch of Claude’s lip went unfollowed, an expression successfully held. He moved the buckle down just one notch. "And now?"

"Much better," she told him. 

As Claude started the process over on her left boot he spoke again. "Just so we are clear, if you call me Claude then there is no need to curtsy."

Byleth was glad for that specification. She was no good at curtsying. She was sure he had noticed by now, as he looked up at her from beneath his long dark lashes and snickered at her little breath of relief. 

With the procuring of Claude's own skates and a tipped hat and thanks to the vendor, the two were off. Claude helped her walk down the steps from road to canal—though he wobbled on the stairs as much as she—until they both could glide easily onto the shimmering water. Byleth found her balance with ease, but slipped her arm into the Duke's offered one regardless.

"You've skated before," Claude remarked, watching the confident step and push of her feet, matching his own with ease. 

"On rougher terrain," she said. "Little lakes and ponds here and there. None sparkled quite like this though."

"It's the algae," Claude told her. Byleth felt her hand tugged along in the bend of his arm as he gesticulated, first running his hand level with the frozen waters. "The algae in the northeast famously makes our sea green, but it also is very specially adapted to the climate.” He made a cradle with his two hands, as though he were holding something so small and precious as a baby bird. “It can survive freezing within the ice each winter by bundling together in a sort of hibernation. The little crystallized pockets reflect light on their own as well as the luminous emerald surface of the sea does in the summertime.”

“The canals sparkle when they have melted as well?” Byleth tilted her head. 

Claude’s brow creased, his lips puckering in a look far more thoughtful to the question than she’d expect. “Sparkle is not the word. Glow, perhaps? But it’s not so constant. The light refracts on the waves and ripples. I think shimmer might fit it best.”

Byleth considered him a moment. He was so careful with his words. He certainly played the role of a more carefree soul; but she had never met anyone who fit that description while demanding such an exacting standard to such little phrases. Regardless, what had initially been a teasing suggestion cemented itself in her image of Claude: he was a romantic. Why else would he be so animated on the particulars of sparkling ice? Why would he look even now like he was selecting the words that would best paint the image and fit the meter he wished to present her with? Why else—she stopped a bit of laughter—would he describe even the mundanities of algae with such poeticism? 

“I should like to see that,” Byleth said. “Are there leisure boats on the canals?”

“Yes,” Claude grinned. His attention seemed to shift into place, seeing her and the world once more as material rather than theoretical. “Plenty are available for hire. I own one that would be glad to finally see some use as well. If you will be here in the spring or summer…”

He left room for her answer. “I am here the whole season: from now to the Garland Moon.”

“Ah, that is good to hear.” He spoke just a bit louder than before. Byleth smiled at the brief gleam in his eye and the expression so unlike her own, just barely contained warmth beneath the mask. Claude made up for this with a rehearsed bit of flattery to cut through his more vulnerable delight. “Derdriu will be all the brighter with you in it. Shall I pass on the news to my poor neglected barge?”

“If it pleases you,” she tipped a shoulder in what was not quite a shrug.

“It does,” he said.

“It is settled then.” Byleth said. 

She gave his arm an affirming squeeze. It was a banal gesture she had given many: friends, family, strangers in need of a bit of encouragement. But she was no lamb; the languid press of fingers over firm muscle was a gesture used to affirm and encourage sentiments beyond just the banal. 

It inspired Claude to turn towards her. His head inclined, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over eyes so deep Byleth wondered what falling in would feel like. She wondered this with greater anticipation as he smiled down at her. It was a tender look, brimming with sincerity. Claude’s free hand came to hold Byleth’s own, tucked in his arm. He leaned in and she nearly gasped when his warm breath hit the shell of her ear. 

“The crowds will be in soon,” he spoke low. The timber in his voice raised goose flesh beneath her warm layers, and sent a shiver through her body. “And cold,” he chuckled affectionately. “I know a place not far from here: very warm, not too loud, comfortable. Will you join me?”

“Yes, please.” She breathed, a blush coming to her cheeks as she realized she was all but swooning. 

Byleth allowed him to guide her a little further up the canal, then to sweep her away back towards the vendors and shops that lined the streets, and finally to bring her to the place as warm, quiet, and comfortable as promised.

* * *

If Byleth had anything to say about the name of Claude's favourite tea room she did not share. Feeling just the slightest bit self-conscious over the name, he chuckled. 

"I found this place about seven years ago," Claude explained to her. "I was young, sixteen, and very pleased with the pun. Then, just my luck, it turned out they had a beautiful pine blend."

Byleth's nose crinkled up at the mention of it. "My father put Faerghus black pine needles in hot water whenever I had a cold." 

"Ah, it's not nearly so bitter as that," he said. "This pine comes from further east and it's...well, hard to describe really."

Claude opened the door to let Byleth through. As she busied herself, tapping off the snow from her boots, Claude called in to where the hostess stood. She was only just finishing her check on a table not far from the entry. 

"Mrs. Lewis, you must tell my companion how truly remarkable your pine blend is," Claude said. 

"Oh, Your Grace! Welcome back!" The matron of the tea room brightened when she saw her guests. Claude could not help but brighten a little himself. Mrs. Lewis was just a woman with that way about her. "You have brought a new friend. Is she not yet thoroughly subscribed to the doctrine of Almyran pine then?"

"Alas, she has been burnt before," Claude sighed dramatically.

He tapped off his own boot on the entry's rug and came up by Byleth's side to offer her a hand with her redingote. Byleth untied wrap of the rich green garment reluctantly. She was still flushed and her cheeks only burned brighter by the second. He had kept the poor lady out in the cold too long, he thought. 

"The last pine tea she had was a cough remedy and made of that vile stuff from Faerghus," Claude elaborated as he collected the coat Byleth shrugged from her shoulders. He passed it off to the young Miss Lewis, who approached from the guest closet with a smile and a nod. He went on as he pulled off his own winter attire. "I did not know how best to describe the difference to her." 

At that Mrs. Lewis could only shake her head. She turned towards Byleth with a weary look and, as though bringing her into some special confidence, she said between them. “It is as though he has learned nothing. Tea is not described but experienced.”

With little more than a courteous smile aimed Claude’s way and a query a question of whether or not she should prepare a second pot of black tea for the lady, Mrs. Lewis started them on their way to a private room. At the back of _Repartea_ there were two doors to private parlours open only for reservations. The one to the left—Claude’s favourite, as its window looked out onto the public gardens just west of main street—was readied to Claude’s usual specifications. Before Mrs. Lewis left them Claude made sure to draft a quick note. 

“Could one of your boys carry this to a Mr. Leclerc and Mrs. Arnault? They should be near the fair’s entry by the sculptures,” Claude requested of their hostess. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Lewis nodded. “And do you expect they will be joining you for tea?”

“At the least I expect they will arrive shortly to collect their friend,” Claude told her. 

With that Mrs. Lewis took her leave. Claude ushered Byleth over to a comfortably cushioned wooden booth by the window and took a seat next to her. It did not take long after for two large pots of tea and two three-tiered towers of sandwiches, and pastries to arrive balanced remarkably by yet another Miss Lewis. The young lady, apart from bringing the servings, also set three extra places at the tea table: one before Byleth, and two others in spaces yet to be filled. Claude and Byleth gave their thanks before being left, for the first time, together in total privacy. 

Claude had not expected such a thing would make him quite so nervous. Yet he was, especially as Byleth began to make work of the buttons of her glove, the thin veil of skin over her wrist exposed between the tanned hide and the pastel blue cotton of her long-sleeved frock. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, making a point of working his hands out of his own gloves, setting them aside, and opening the top of their tea pots. 

“This one,” he said, tapping the pot with a gold and blue trim, “is the pine. So the floral one must be the black.”

“Hmm,” Byleth considered that as she set aside her gloves and folded a napkin over her lap. “How do you usually take the pine tea?” 

“Oh, plain is best,” Claude told her. “Any milk or cream will ruin it. And though I have known some to prefer it with a little sugar, or even spice, it is most definitely to be experienced as it is at least once.”

“I will have a small cup then,” Byleth said. 

Claude smiled and poured for Byleth, quarter filling her cup. 

He then poured for himself and raised the tea upwards, taking a deep breath. That pine smell reminded him of home. Though he had never lived long in the northern mountain range of Almyra, or the western valley where those mountains extended out into Fódlan’s Throat, his father had. Claude remembered many days spent in the palace gardens, sitting in the grass beneath the tree in his father’s lap. He drank so much pine tea that the fresh smell never left him. Cuddled into his father’s robes he could almost convince himself he had spent as many days in the mountain provinces as Rahim had. When he drank the pine tea that had grown in popularity on this side of the border after his father had expanded trade a little over twenty years ago, Claude could almost convince himself that he was still close, that it had not been nearly a decade since he’d seen him. 

Claude was torn from his thoughts by a hum near to a moan from his side. He raised a brow as he looked towards Byleth. Her cheeks coloured a little at his attention. She too sat still, holding her tea cup just near her lips, untouched.

“You seemed so lost in the smell,” she said. “I understand. It is very nice.”

“It is the largest part of the appeal,” Claude said before taking a quick sip. “Were it not for the scent I imagine it would only taste like hot water.”

He watched Byleth take her own curious sip then. She blinked when she parted from the cup. Then she took another sip. Claude chuckled when she prepared for her third, using one hand to pinch her nose. 

“I see,” she said finally, putting the tea down. “It doesn’t taste like much at all on its own. It is very…fresh though.”

“Very,” Claude agreed. “I always start my day with a cup. It’s a perfect morning tea.”

“You said it’s Almyran,” Byleth noted. “It must not be very common here then.”

“The price has gone down as international trade becomes more common in Leicester,” Claude said. “But you are right. You won’t find it outside of specialty tea houses like this or very specific trade stores. If it is something you’re after, however, I would be most happy to make you a gift from my own supply.”

“You…” Byleth examined him carefully. Claude felt his attention fix squarely on her again, as though he could read intention in the way her eyes wandered his features. “I am not sure what I have done to earn such friendship from you.”

Were Claude not the introspective sort he would not have known the answer to that either. It was a subtle set of circumstances that drew him her way. Miss Eisner was beautiful, certainly. But she also moved and spoke in a way he enjoyed; both motion and speech seeming to at once hint at and obscure the depths of a busy and curious mind. He found her attractive, that much was clear. Beyond all that, he also desired the stable pleasure of her company, or any company, that was not somehow tainted with politics and all the accompanying motivations. And yet—despite providing just that sort of company, thanks mostly to her rare and humble background—she still managed to surprise him. Claude had never thought he would find a friend-to-be who might intersect so perfectly at the crossroads of intriguing and safe. But now that he had come across such an impossible person—a very pretty one at that—he found her charms nearly magnetic.

None of that sounded very flattering, however; and Claude liked very much to flatter as part of his social strategy. Besides, it did not seem the sort of thing to say to someone just now getting to know him. He might come off as paranoid at best, pretentious at worst. 

So instead he sat closer to Byleth and, with all the sincerity he could tear from his own tight grasp, he said: “perhaps it is I who seeks to earn your friendship. I would very much like to know you, Byleth. Your company is…somewhat of a respite for me. If I am excessive in my geniality it is only in hopes that I might convince you my company is worth keeping.”

Claude did not know what expression he wore. He did not know how his lip, his brow, his eyes had turned, or what they might be saying to the young woman at his side. Whatever his countenance, it was entirely organic in its formation. This fact alone would usually pull at his frayed nerves, settle unease in his gut. But the lady took in a breath, smiled with such a tenderness as to force him to draw in a slow breath of his own to chase that all away. When his lips had parted to beckon air she came closer. This next formation too, of his lips molding with hers, was entirely organic. Never had he felt a moment of being more natural to his person. And her mouth, petal soft, only encouraged him to push further through the emotional wilderness, uncultivated by his anxieties for past and future days. 

He was unsure whether he had kissed her or she him; but the deepening of their contact was certainly his doing. As gently as he dared, Claude let his tongue glide over the curve of Byleth’s bottom lip. When she opened her mouth to him—parting from their kiss, eyes fluttering in wait for the execution of his silent suggestion—he tilted her chin with his hand, slipped his tongue into her mouth. She did not shrink from him, only sat taller. Her hands clutched the lapels of his coat to bring him closer and in turn his free hand pressed into the small of her back. His fingers curled in her gauzy skirts as he explored the ways his tongue could slide against her own to make her shiver. He found the most satisfaction in withdrawing from that depth, sucking languidly on her bottom lip before pressing a light, lingering kiss to the top. 

One of Byleth’s hands raised from his lapel to tangle in his hair. He did not anticipate her teeth dragging on his lower lip, but moaned when he felt it. She pulled him forward into her with the gravity his emotions had given her command of. Claude adjusted his arms, wrapping both tightly around her waist as they kissed more, fell further back. Finally, when he felt one stockinged leg raising to hook on his hip, Claude jumped back into reality. 

He stood at once from the bench, retreating to the furthest inner corner of the tea room. He adjusted his coat on the journey, combed a hand through his hair, and breathed deeply through his nose with the hope he could pull himself back into something resembling a respectable man.

“Miss Eisner,” He said, turning on his heel and trying to adopt a statesman’s tone. Any coherent apology he might have cobbled together left when he saw her. 

Byleth leaned to one side, supported by her arm. Her legs folded up on the sofa, her skirts fallen about the curve of an exposed thigh. She was the very picture of what Claude might call seduction. And he might have believed that were it not for the wide, wounded look in her eyes. 

“Have I done something wrong?” She sounded so very sure she had. 

Claude did not need to wrack his brain to find the reason he might have given her for thinking so. He resisted the urge to dig into his head with the heel of his palm. 

“Byleth. I am sorry. Byleth. You have done nothing wrong, not even slightly,” Claude assured her. “But I have done very, very badly by you. I am sorry.”

Byleth tilted her head and stood. Her skirts all fell into place with the action and Claude swallowed a sigh of relief at that little victory. 

“I cannot think of how,” Byleth said. “On the contrary, you have been kind, generous, and very attentive to me, stranger though I am.”

“I have tried to be kind and all the rest,” Claude nodded his agreement. He forced himself to meet her eye as she stepped towards, counting three paces left between them when she stopped. He still felt too close. “And I am aware of my effect as a Duke. This is your first time out in society and I understand how that may be overwhelming. For me, someone of such station in a new place, to be so overt with my affections—” He took a moment to think. Interest would have been the better word, more proper. But he had to get through this. “If I have made you feel at all pressured, or that my continued acquaintance was in any way contingent on—”

“I was under no such impression.” Byleth spoke plainly. Her face was stoic once more. There was no sign of any hurt or offense. She bore herself upwards, shoulders squaring into the same proud position he had found her taking alone on his veranda. “I wanted to kiss you.” There was little quirk of her lip upwards, like what he had first seen hint at her lovely smile. “I enjoyed kissing you.”

“Well, that is—” Claude cleared his throat. “Good.”

“I would kiss you again,” Byleth said. Ah, and her smile was back: a soft easily missed nuance of her mien. “I would let you kiss me, if you preferred.”

Claude folded his hands in front of him, the way he sometimes did while orating. His brow furrowed and he glanced measuredly down to his left and then his right. It was a specific tactic, one to make anything said after appear more considered, perhaps even to lend a statement some semblance of wisdom. In reality he was very unsure, rattled, and even as he spoke he feared somehow that he was acting in error—as he wanted, very much, to act according to their mutual wishes. 

“I would not want to take advantage,” Claude said. 

Byleth blinked. She seemed surprised one moment and perturbed the next. Of all the reactions Claude might have anticipated, offense was not one of them. 

“You think I do not know my own mind?” Byleth asked. “I assure you, I do. I know myself well, mind and body, and I am aware of my own desires.”

“I did not mean—” His eyes widened to hear how she had interpreted him. Claude fumbled for words but was cut quickly off. He had been far too wrapped up in the questions of his own conduct to have considered the lady’s own pride. 

“I enjoy your company,” Byleth said. Her eyes flickered quickly, scanning him head-to-toe. “And I know what I want, Claude.”

His face burned far worse than he could ever remember it burning before. That had not been a thing he had expected for her to say either. He spun out as he struggled to come to terms with this fact. He reached out for threads to cling to in his spiral and found none. Though he wanted desperately to, Claude thought it best not to risk further insult in asking her to clarify. 

“Am I reciprocated?” She asked. 

“Yes,” Claude answered truthfully before the part of his mind responsible for social stratagem had caught up to the conversation. He knew for certain, as soon as the words left his mouth that it would punish him thoroughly for that slip later. 

“Then we understand one another,” she took in a deep inhale of breath. Claude realized then he was not the only one whose heart had been hammering. “And so…”

There was no sound, no motion between the two of them; yet Claude felt that they had both leaned in closer. His mouth felt dry, his face still burned, his palms were sweatier than they had been before. This was all hardly conducive to a kiss and unworthy of the most comforting presence Claude had come into contact with for gods only know how long. 

Still, he finally stepped closer. His hands reached out between them, the pads of his fingers hovering just above either side of her neck, below her jaw. 

“May I kiss you?” He asked low between them. 

Something quaked in him, the unease returning to rise from his gut to his chest. Asking for what he wanted felt wrong somehow. He felt callous and selfish for having voiced the question. All that clashed against the joy that spread warmth through his veins when her face softened, a pink blush spreading over her round cheeks. It emboldened him just enough to set his hands at last to her skin, a thumb rising to smooth over her flushed face. 

“Please,” her hands raised to hold gingerly around his wrists: neither pulling nor pushing his hand, simply holding. “Yes.”

Clear intention only fueled the passions of pressing lips. He was careful with her, pacing himself slowly between one movement and another. Byleth’s pulse quickened beneath his fingers and he could not help but to moan against her lip, imagining what it would be like to kiss her throat, to feel the thrum of her heartbeat beneath his mouth, the heat of her skin on his tongue. That sense of unease built up once more and he pulled away from her. Where his eyes were half lidded, his lips kiss swollen, she seemed entirely taken. Her eyes were blown out, her mouth fell open, her chest heaved with breath as he held her close. 

Claude’s mind did flips, one part of himself wanting to kiss her again to see how expressive she could yet become. The other part churned, the nagging at the back of his mind feeling confirmed. There was a gap between them, not only in station but also in experience. Perhaps he was callous and selfish for indulging his desires, however mutual. 

“Was that alright?” He asked. 

Byleth nodded, smile spreading ear-to-ear. It was nice knowing her to be pleased with him; but still, it was hard to believe her.

Byleth raised on her toes. “Why have we stopped?”

“Mr. Leclerc and Mrs. Arnault are on their way, if you recall,” Claude sputtered a near laugh. 

Byleth’s face did not quite fall at the reminder but some glow did appear to leave her. This in no way helped Claude with his rising infatuation—he made her glow!

Pulling further from her, Claude took a hand in his. 

“Come sit,” he said, winning back some of his charm at a situation a little more under his control. Did it bode well the fact that he needed the threat of eye witnesses walking in to talk themselves away from one another? He could not think of that or he would lose his wits again. “I can pour you another cup of the pine blend, if you like?”

Byleth agreed, coming to sit once more on the cushioned bench beside him. 

There was silence between them. It was not uncomfortable but he could mark a potent tension. He felt as though they were opposite ends of a longbow: far apart, but a string pulled taut between them. Tighter, tighter, tighter still as the bow was drawn further with each glance, each brush of the hand. Either to Claude’s great luck or misfortune, the Arnault-Leclercs arrived before the arrow was loosed. 

“I must say,” Dorothea began immediately upon entering the room. Both Claude and Byleth jumped at the couple’s arrival although they were engaged in nothing more scandalous than a held gaze. “I was growing concerned—only a little, mind you—that you did not come find us earlier. You are usually early to a rendezvous. Imagine my surprise to get a ransom letter from none other than the Sovereign Duke!”

Claude huffed and watched from the corner of his eye as Byleth’s lips drew in, holding back a laugh. “You make it sound like I kidnapped her.”

“Could you imagine?” Yuri smirked, winking Byleth’s way before staring squarely at Claude. 

He looked as though he knew something; though Claude paid it no mind. Yuri always looked as though he knew something. 

Dorothea sat to Byleth’s other side and Yuri in the lone chair across from the bench. Claude found himself looking too often towards Mrs. Arnault and Byleth’s hands linked between them. He felt a twinge of longing for the liberties friendship could afford one in society’s eyes. 

A pleasant tea time passed without incident. Claude had always found the songstress to be an agreeable and compassionate woman; and he had never struggled to hold amiable conversations with her. Yuri was a man very like and unlike himself in interesting ways. He tread carefully under the knowledge all that was required between them was a collective effort to be cordial. 

When the time came for the group to part ways, Byleth stayed tarried a second longer. Mr. Leclerc stood by the open door, close enough to gauge the propriety of the exchange, though not so close as to intrude. 

"I am happy to have seen you today," Byleth told him. "I hope it will not be the last time."

"No," Claude said. He doubted very much that was possible. "It will not be."

"I have thoughts," she spoke more quietly then. "On what the time of my life might be."

Claude would have stammered were it not for the fact he was quite lost for words to stammer on. 

"Your Grace," she curtsied shallowly on a step back before leaving with her hosts. 

Claude only managed an answering bow as her back turned. 

"Miss Eisner," he said, although she was quite past hearing him. There was a beat more before Claude left the room. He took one last chance for the day to have her on his lips. "Byleth."


End file.
